A tearing noise ripped across the river and people screamed, pushing back against them. As they shoved, bullets cracked through the air, but her mother stayed strong. She led her away, up the bank.
People fell as more gunfire sounded. She could hear the projectiles snap overhead and thump into the ground around them.
As they climbed she felt her mother shudder and let out a cry. Her usually firm grip failed, letting her hand slip. More bullets hissed around them as sharp claps sounded from the darkness. Her mother dropped to her knees.
She scrambled to her mother’s side and grasped her face. Her skin was pale in the moonlight, eyes wide and sad. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Run,” she croaked. “Run.”
Bodies barged past as villagers fled from the violence. She clutched her mother as her beautiful eyes closed. “Momma, momma,” she cried, but there was no response as her body slumped to the ground.
A hand grasped hers and she looked up to see a face she recognized, the boy from the next street, her friend.
“Run! We need to run,” he yelled, standing protectively over her.
She watched in horror as bullets struck him. He slumped forward, eyes wide.
She screamed as he crumpled to the ground. Scrambling to her feet she ran as fast as her legs would carry her, back toward the burning village, back to her home. People fled past as they tried franticly to escape the death and destruction.
At the outskirts of the shantytown she spotted figures. Armed men, their faces wrapped in scarves, lurked among the buildings. She watched in horror as they dragged a woman, kicking and screaming, inside one of the shacks. As she rounded a corner, she nearly collided with a group of them. One of them lunged at her and she fell backward. He kicked her and she doubled over in pain. Cruel laughter sounded over the gunfire and explosions.
Curling into a ball, she moaned softly, “Momma, momma.” Rough hands yanked her from the ground.
“Your momma’s dead, bitch” growled a voice.
A cord looped around her neck. She grasped it with her hands as it tightened, cutting into her fingers. Collared like a dog she was dragged past burning shacks and sprawled corpses.
By the time they reached the center of the village she was fighting for breath. She tried to scream when, in the flickering light of the fires, she saw men dangling from the tree she sat under on market days. More of the masked gunmen watched and laughed as legs kicked like frogs in a pond, faces contorted and eyes bulging.
Her breath came in short, frantic pants as the man who leashed her pushed her toward a shack. A terrified scream echoed from within and she bolted. The cord jerked around her neck, yanking her off her feet and onto her back. Then as she lay in the dust, clawing at the rope, she heard a familiar sound.
Rounds snapped through the air. Her captor let out a grunt and fell in front of her, his face split like a ripe summer melon. Grey flesh and blood mingled with the earth.
Cries filled the air as more gunmen collapsed, but she didn’t hear them as she gasped for breath.
As she fought to stay conscious, something cut the cord. Soft plastic touched her mouth and cool fresh air filled her lungs.
The man that knelt over her wore a helmet with a faceplate that was raised. She could see his eyes. Brown, they reflected the flames.
“Hostile targets destroyed,” said a strange metallic voice.
She glanced out of the corner of her eye and spotted a black, vaguely human shape standing a few yards distant. Its arms and legs looked like tubes. Its head turned toward her. In place of eyes it had a cluster of lenses. It seemed to be studying her.
“Sweep the village and provide medical aid to anyone still alive,” said the man, in a clipped voice.
There was a whirr as the humanoid machine disappeared into the darkness.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said, lifting her effortlessly from the ground. He made a mechanical noise, not unlike the robotic figure as he carried her across the market square.
She looked up from his arms as something roared above them. A dark shape blocked the stars as it flew overhead, twin blue flames trailing as it passed.
The man carried her past more of the black robotic figures and out into the desert where the aircraft had landed. The clean air she breathed from the facemask calmed her as she was carried under black wings, up a ramp and into the glowing inside. He laid her on a stretcher attached to the bulkhead.
A new face appeared, a woman with bright blue eyes.
“Momma?” she murmured behind the mask.
“You’re safe now child. You’re safe now.”
She sat upright, tearing the mask from her face. “Where’s my momma?”
“It’s OK.” The woman pushed her gently back against the bed.
Tears streamed from her eyes and panic assailed her. “No! Momma, I want momma.”
She felt a sting on her arm then suddenly she was falling, sucked into a black void that engulfed her. “Momma, momma…”
***
She woke in a panic, fingers clutching at her face, searching for an oxygen mask that wasn’t there. It took her a moment to realize where she was. Her breathing slowly returned to normal as she lay, staring at the dark ceiling. “Lights,” she ordered.
The ceiling illuminated, filling the room with a soft glow. She sat up, swung her legs off the bed and padded the few feet to a desk.
The tiny room had been her home for six months, the same period that she had been experiencing the re-occurring dream. Her childhood was something she could not remember. A Sakkin doctor had told her it was because of the trauma she had endured. Her underdeveloped emotions had chosen to forget what she could not process.
She pulled a plastic stool from under the desk then climbed onto the sleek white surface. Reaching to the ceiling she displaced one of the incandescent panels. She withdrew a small tattered notebook, replaced the panel, climbed down and sat at the desk. The book was technically her only possession. Everything else in the room, from the toiletries to the fitted black uniforms that hung in her cupboard, belonged to Sakkin Industries, the company whose operatives had rescued her from the men in her dreams.
She slid a pencil from the notebook’s spiral binding and flicked through the worn pages. Inside were sketches from her dreams. Finding the next empty page she worked fast to capture the details before they faded from memory. It took a matter of moments to finish. Lowering the pencil, she examined what she had drawn.
From the paper gazed a beautiful woman with high cheekbones, almond eyes and flowing brown hair. It was a sketch of the lady from her dreams, her mother.
Lifting her head, she studied the face in the mirror attached to the wall. She had the same bone structure, but her eyes were more Asiatic. She was darker than her mother, her skin smooth and brown, free from the damage of the sun. She could not remember the last time she had walked outside, uncovered. The doctors said she was sixteen years old. All she could remember was the short time she had been at this training school, known as the Institute.
Closing her eyes she ran her fingers through her hair, desperately trying to recall the smell and feel of her mother. But, as always, the memory had faded leaving her with nothing other than the sketch. A tear ran down her cheek and she flicked back through the pages, searching for more memories.
The notebook was filled with sketches: a picture of the man who saved her, the boy who had been killed and even a map of her village. These images were the only link she had to her past. The only hope she had of ever finding her people and possibly, her father.
He had never appeared in any of her dreams. That meant there was a chance that he was still alive. Her gaze returned to the mirror and studied her reflection. Given her Eurasian features, it was likely that her father was of Asian descent. She had often wondered why he was not in the village that night. Had he left them, or had he passed away? They were questions that she asked on a daily basis.
A soft chiming sounded and the light
panels increased in intensity.
“Good morning trainee Eight Two,” a soft feminine voice filled the room. “Your first training session is in the unarmed combat facility at zero seven thirty.”
Eight Two was her unique identifier. Every Sakkin trainee had one. She’d had a real name once, she was sure of that. Her mother had used it in a dream. However, on waking it had melted from her memory. No matter how hard she tried, she had never been able to recall it. So, for now, she remained Eight Two.
Touching the mirror she changed it to a digital display. “Show my timetable.”
She glanced at the list of classes before climbing back onto the desk and returning her notebook to its hiding place. Then she showered in the tiny bathroom at the rear of the room and donned one of the sleek black uniforms that hung in her wardrobe. Slipping her feet into a pair of combat trainers, she pulled them tight and rose from the bed. She found her smart watch on the desk and slid it onto her wrist. A glance in the mirror confirmed her hair was in a regulation-sized bun. Then she slapped her palm against a biometric lock and the door snapped open.
Outside, the sterile white corridor rang with footsteps. Eight Two waited for a group of like-uniformed students to pass and then slipped in behind them.
It was a short walk to the dining facility. On the way, she passed a half-dozen more doors to rooms exactly like hers. One of them snapped open and a fellow trainee stepped into the corridor and nearly collided with her.
“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
The teenager stared at her but did not say a word. Turning he jogged after the group ahead, leaving Eight Two alone in the corridor. She sighed and followed them into the dining room.
Ten other corridors merged in the circular room that served as their dining hall. Each one had twelve rooms, giving the facility a maximum capacity of one hundred and twenty trainees. However, her class of forty was currently the only one. Most of those were already seated and eating at the tables that ran out from the central food distribution point. She walked to it, found a spare screen, selected her meal choices and waited. A split second later the replicator ejected a tray with a squirt of mushy gray nutrient paste and a juice box. Taking the tray she turned and searched for a seat.
This was the part she dreaded most, finding somewhere to sit where she could eat her breakfast in peace. In the last few months she’d come to realize that she was not like the others. For a start she was female, most of them were teenage boys, orphans from the Greater Middle Eastern Conflict. But there was something else, something far harder to define. It was as if her entire class of forty trainees was completely devoid of emotion. Each one was cold, ruthless and utterly unapproachable.
She spotted an empty table and made a beeline for it. Sitting she shoveled the soy based replifood into her mouth without making eye contact with any of the others.
“Mind if we join you?”
She recognized the voice as belonging to one of the four teenage boys who were part of her squad. Glancing up she locked eyes with Three Three, the self-appointed leader of squad Gurion. At six foot, he stood a full six inches taller than her and was at least thirty pounds heavier. The other members had taken to calling him Tree. His eyes were dark brown to the point of being black and he wore a permanent grimace on his chiseled features. The other members of the squad stood alongside him, four sixteen year olds that looked so similar they could have been brothers.
“I said, mind if we join you?” said Tree gruffly as he sat and shoved her tray out of the way.
The others followed suit crowding in around her.
Tree eyed her tray then reached across and grabbed her juice. “You know what they say. A team that eats together wins together.”
“I’ve never heard that before,” Eight Two said quietly.
He finished the juice and tossed it back on her plate. “Then you heard it here first.”
“Seniors on deck,” bellowed a voice.
Eight Two and her colleagues leaped to their feet, snapped their arms to their sides and stared directly ahead. From the corner of her eye she spotted two members of the senior class circling the room like sharks. The eighteen year old males were only months away from graduating from the Institute. They moved with a deadly grace, not unlike the tigers that Eight Two had seen during her global immersion classes.
One of them turned into their aisle shoving chairs aside as he made a beeline for them. He was a few inches shorter than Tree, but his chest, arms and shoulders were considerably more developed. His dark eyes were narrow giving the impression that he was always squinting.
Eight Two knew who he was. His designator started with the numerals Seven Nine Nine. Three numerals showed that he was in his final year of training and was to be treated with the necessary respect.
“Are you squad Gurion?” he asked in Arabic.
Tree nodded.
She felt the senior’s eyes linger on her. “Is this girl one of yours?”
He nodded again.
Eight Two felt a flush of color in her cheeks as Seven Nine Nine examined her from head to toe. His lip curled into a scowl and he gestured to the team. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“YES, SIR!” yelled Eight Two and her teammates.
As they turned to leave, Seven Nine Nine grabbed Tree by the arm. “Not you.”
Tree stood like a statue as his teammates and the other trainees made their way to the bank of elevators located on the curved dining room wall.
Seven Nine Nine watched the trainees enter the elevator in an orderly fashion. “I’ve been allocated Gurion for the Tsalmaveth.” He turned and locked eyes with Tree. “It’s your job to make sure they are ready.”
He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“That girl is a weakness. Weakness must be removed before it cripples the team. Now, go.”
Tree snapped into action and strode across to the elevators where the last of his class were filing inside. The doors closed with a quiet hiss. As the high-speed capsule rose, he smirked.
CHAPTER 2
THE INSTITUTE, JORDAN
Eight Two adjusted the side straps on her torso armor then twisted from side to side. Satisfied it didn’t inhibit her movement she made to don the soft head armor that trainees wore during unarmed combat training.
“You won’t be needing that,” a gruff voice declared.
She turned to face the instructor who stood in the center of one of the Institute’s unarmed combat labs. He was dressed in the jet-black fatigues worn by the facility’s staff.
“The stakes have been raised,” he said as he paced the rubber fighting mats. “From now on all of your unarmed combat will be performed without head gear. Fighting through the haze of concussion is something you will learn to endure. Now, fall in.”
Eight Two dropped the headgear and stepped into line at the edge of the mat with the rest of squad Gurion.
“Today you will fight four two-minute rounds, full contact until submission,” announced the man. He took a flexipad from his pocket and studied the screen.
Eight Two felt a wave of apprehension sweep over her. By far she was the smallest in the team. Even the lightest of the four boys had at least twenty pounds and four inches of reach on her. Without the protection of headgear there was a real chance she could be injured, or worse.
The instructor eyeballed the team. “First fight, Three Three and Eight Two.”
Her heart skipped a beat as Tree stepped forward. She followed his lead and tentatively moved onto the mat as the instructor stepped to one side.
“Standby,” he ordered, fingers tapping on the flexipad.
Eight Two moved to the yellow square marked on the floor and turned to face her opponent. Tree grinned menacingly as he took up a fighting stance.
She exhaled and adopted a more relaxed posture. The white paneled walls of the combat lab began flashing. A number 5 appeared and a shrill beep sounded as the numbers counted down:
4.
3.
2.
Tree’s body tensed. She focused on remaining calm.
1.
He launched at her a split second before the call.
“FIGHT!”
As Tree lunged the white walls changed to combat video footage. Rock music and explosions blasted from hidden speakers. It was designed to add complexity and intensity to the situation, overwhelming the combatants’ senses.
Eight Two ducked under Tree’s right cross and dove to the opposite side. He moved with lightning speed, but she knew from previous sessions that she was faster. His power was the greatest threat. Without her head gear all it would take was one solid blow and she was finished. Spinning she faced her opponent as he launched another attack. Once again she ducked under his punch, but this time she counter punched, aiming for his armpit.
Both fighters wore reactive low profile armor over their combat uniforms. Soft and pliable it hardened to defeat blows from weapons and projectiles.
Eight Two struck like a cobra, knife-handing the tendons under his arm. He grunted and lashed out with a kick as she weaved past. The blow caught her armor, sending her flying into the mat.
Tree let out a roar and she rolled sideways to avoid his boot. Flipping cat-like onto her feet she followed up with a volley of kicks. The blows landed on his torso with seemingly little effect. She switched target to his face, with a lightning fast sidekick that snapped his head back.
Tree staggered and shook his head. Eight Two paused as she evaluated the effectiveness of the blow. She was breathing hard with sweat dripping from her brow. As she considered following up with another attack a buzzer sounded, indicating the end of the first round.
The two fighters moved back to their designated squares as the walls went blank and the rock music subsided. Eight Two closed her eyes and exhaled as a soft feminine voice counted down to the next round. When it reached five seconds, she wiped her brow and opened her eyes, staring calmly at her opponent.
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